There's Always Something
by Thalion Estel
Summary: The Winter Soldier is in utter despair. He has nothing to live for, no where to go, and no identity. When he comes across a strange jogger just before dawn, will his darkness be penetrated by the light of thankfulness? Does he have anything to be grateful for? No slash. Post CA:TWS. Written in honor of Thanksgiving.


**Disclaimer: I do not own any of Marvel's awesome characters, events, or settings.**

**Author's Note: Happy Thanksgiving, guys! I hope this story reminds you how much you have to be thankful for! Please leave me a review!**

There's Always Something

The Winter Soldier walked down the streets of Washington D.C. with his head down and his hands in his pockets. The tattered clothes he had found outside a thrift store were not doing much against a chilly autumn wind, but the Soldier didn't mind. The cold barely affected him at all. It never had. At least, not that he clearly remembered.

The rim of an old baseball cap kept his icy blue eyes obscured from the gaze of other pedestrians, and he pushed on in silence, heedless of his immediate surroundings. His shoulder made contact with someone walking in the opposite direction, and the stranger scolded him angrily. The Soldier did not care, did not stop, and did not look back.

This was the first time that the Soldier could remember being purposeless. It seemed so incredibly unnatural to be without orders or goals that he felt guilty. However, he was unfamiliar with thinking on his own, so he was not comfortable with deciding which course to take. Should he seek out this "Captain America" since, according to the museum exhibit, they might have once known each other? That might help him remember things.

But did he _want_ to remember things? Even if memories were good things, they were just memories. He was certainly not the James Buchanan Barnes who had fallen from a train in the 1940s. He was the Winter Soldier. He had no emotions and no past. He was a weapon, a machine; not a man.

_Then why did you save him?_ a voice asked in the Soldier's head. That question had lingered in the Soldier's mind ever since he had walked away from the river's banks. He had no answer, so he continued down the sidewalk.

The Soldier walked for hours. The sun slowly set below the western horizon, and the air became bitterly cold. There were no longer any other people in the Soldier's vicinity, and few cars drove on the road. The tall buildings of downtown were being replaced by much smaller structures, and even a few houses dotted the area. Soon the Soldier found himself in a green belt, and being very tired, he located a bench and sat down for the first time in many hours. His legs ached from the long walk, and his right arm still throbbed painfully from his fight with Captain America. He wished he could sleep, but he knew that sleep would not come to him tonight. His mind was beginning to race.

He had never had warring thoughts become a serious problem before today. Until this morning, when the Avenger had acted so strangely, the Soldier had never even questioned his missions. He had just carried them out with perfect precision, and that was why he had been undefeatable.

Now, he was becoming susceptible to weakness. He could not perform properly if his mind was dominated by irrational emotions. A part of the Soldier had hoped that when he went to the Smithsonian, he would find Captain America's remarks to be proven false, and thus have peace of mind restored. But that hope had been shattered, and in addition, the Soldier was beginning to suspect that he had never had peace of mind in the first place. He had simply not possessed a mind.

The Soldier ground his teeth and clenched his metal hand into a tight fist. Instead of his thoughts becoming more and more calculated as time drew on, they were growing erratic and scattered. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, but to no avail. What was happening to him? It was as if the Captain had placed a disease in his brain, a disease that would eat him alive from the inside.

The night passed slowly and torturously. As time dragged on, more thoughts and pictures raced in the Soldier's consciousness, and they began to affect his physical demeanor. His head hurt as the shell of a soul kicked furiously against the frozen bonds of Hydra, trying desperately to get out. He clamped his eyes shut and pressed his hands against his head in an attempt to block out his thoughts. He shivered, not from the coldness of the night, but from fear of the unknown.

"_Say it," Zola snapped. "Say it! Hail Hydra!"_

"_No," Bucky moaned, defying his tormentor's instructions like so many times before. And like so many times before, his disobedience was rewarded with fresh pain as electricity pulsed through his body like fire in his veins. He let out a cry, but it did nothing. His throat was hoarse from screams, and his eyes were bloodshot and heavy with exhaustion._

"_Give him another injection," Zola ordered a doctor standing to the side._

_The command was carried out, and Bucky's will weakened as his world dulled._

"_Say it," Zola said, his merciless eyes glaring at the broken soldier. "Hail Hydra."_

_Everything in Bucky's being begged him to comply. To obey. To avoid the pain. But then an image of his friend flashed before his eyes, that stupid kid from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run from a fight. If Steve had possessed the courage to get punched over and over in defense of what was right, he could too. Spitting the blood in his mouth at the short, Swiss man, Bucky met Zola's glare with one of his own._

"_Never!" he yelled._

_The pain flashed across his body with even more intensity. Zola's crooked voice could barely be heard above Bucky's own cries._

"_You will fall to us sooner or later, Sergeant Barnes. You will fall."_

The Soldier stirred from the memory as he involuntarily lashed out with his bionic arm at a Swiss scientist who was not there. It slammed into the metal backing of the bench, making a small dent. The Soldier realized that he was panting, and his mind would not calm down. He felt tears on his face, and being thoroughly confused and frightened, he jumped up from his seat and began to run from everything: from his past, from Hydra, and from himself.

It was still very much nighttime, and except for the occasional street light illuminating a small section of the sidewalk that wound through the green belt, the darkness consumed all the scenery. The Soldier ran through the blackness, pushing past dangling tree branches and bushes without heed. He received several scratches on his face and hand, but he could not stop or slow down. He continued on until, after many minutes of sprinting, he stumbled and fell, sprawling on his face. In his present condition, wounded, hungry, tired, and confused, he simply could not force himself to rise. He remained lying on the ground and wept.

He had no idea how long he lay there, his face flat in the dewy grass. When he finally lifted up his head, he saw that it was almost dawn. Part of a paved trail was visible a few yards away. Trees stood all about him, but not as closely as in a forest. One particularly large one was only a couple feet away, and the Soldier dragged himself over to it, leaning his back against its firm, rough trunk. Tears streaked down his dirty cheeks, but he didn't care. All he wanted was an end. His life was worth nothing, and in fact, the only thing it contained was pain and suffering. It was not worth it to survive anymore.

The Soldier drew out his combat knife. The blade looked grey and dead in the pale morning light. This knife could be the instrument to end all his pain. All it would take was one cut, and everything would disappear. Although something deep, deep down in the Soldier warned that such an act should not be attempted, his tortured shreds of a mind could only scream for relief.

Just then, the sound of running footsteps echoed through the crisp air. The Soldier hastily put away his blade, though he had no idea why he did it. If the person were an enemy, he should be ready for an attack. Then again, maybe he should hope it was an enemy. Perhaps they would kill him.

In a few moments, a jogger appeared on the sidewalk, cruising at a modest speed. He was young, likely about thirty years old, with very short brown hair and a clean-shaven face. He wore baggy sweat pants and an athletic T-shirt. He looked fairly sweaty, and he had obviously been running for quite a while.

When he passed a streetlight, he hit a button on his watch and slowed down, eventually coming to a stop. He leaned over, heaving in great breaths as he regained some strength. He happened to be standing in direct view of the Soldier, and even in the dull light, it was only a few moments before the man noticed that he was not alone.

At the sight of the Soldier, he straightened up immediately and appeared to be weighing the situation and his options. The Soldier looked up with eyes lacking their usual blank hatred. Now he did not even try to conceal the anguish and despair welling up in his soul. The two men stared at each other for a full three seconds, and then the jogger moved forward.

"Are you alright?" he asked with concern. The Soldier did nothing. If he'd had more strength, he might have run away, but his will was shattered, and he no longer felt that running would solve anything.

The lack of a response caused the jogger to move closer. When he saw the state of the Soldier, his expression became even more worried. Cautiously edging nearer, the man put out his hands to show that he was not a threat.

"Do you need help?" The question was not meant to be answered, for the jogger apparently intended to give help whether it was asked for or not. He was soon standing only a few feet from the Soldier, and he offered a hand to help the Soldier to his feet. The Soldier did not take it.

"Hey," the jogger said quietly, squatting down to the Soldier's level. "Tell me what I can do to help you. You look like you've been through a lot."

The Soldier's eyes filled with fresh tears, and he looked away as the water slipped down his face. The jogger shifted his position and sat down. The gesture was surprising to the Soldier, who assumed the man would just go away, but his surprise did not make him any more willing to speak.

"My name is Joshua Martin, and I work at the church a couple blocks from here. Why don't you come with me and we'll get you a meal or something?"

The Soldier shook his head slightly.

"Oh, come on. You can't spend Thanksgiving all alone in a park! Do you have someone who's going to pick you up?"

The Soldier's eyes brightened a little at the word "Thanksgiving". He did not know what it was, but its mention immediately evoked images of happy moments from a different time, before Hydra and the War. When he tried to think actively about those memories, they vanished. Looking up at Joshua with confusion in his eyes, he dared to speak.

"Thanksgiving?" His voice was somewhat slurred, but Joshua understood him and raised his eyebrows.

"You know, the holiday every fourth Thursday of November?" The Soldier shook his head. "It's when the nation just takes a day to be grateful for what we have."

Now that he knew what it was, the Soldier wished he had not asked. What a stupid holiday. He had absolutely nothing to be grateful for, and the fact that everyone else did only made him feel worse.

Joshua seemed to pick up on some of these thoughts, for he added on to his previous explanation. "There's always something to be grateful for," he said somewhat distantly.

To both the surprise of both Joshua and the Soldier himself, Hydra's asset let out a broken, mocking laugh. He refrained from making eye contact, but he shook his head. He had _nothing_ for which to be grateful. How dare this stranger assume that he did? The Soldier clenched his fists, but he had no desire to hurt the man sitting beside him, so he let his anger become sorrow rather than action. More tears filled his eyes.

"I admit that I don't know what you've experienced," Joshua said slowly, "but maybe I can help you see how lucky you are."

That earned another hollow laugh. Lucky? Goodness, this man was so naive. The only way the Soldier would have been lucky was if he had died at birth. His mouth was hinged shut, and his mind was still reeling, but if he had been able, he would have given the strange jogger an earful of reality. As it was, he simply remained quiet and kept his gaze averted.

"Have you ever thought," Joshua began, making himself comfortable near the Soldier's side, "how good it is to be alive?"

The Soldier dared to roll his eyes. It was _not_ good to be alive. It was constant torture; pain without relief. The Soldier felt his skin crawl as he wished the annoying pest would go away and keep his unrealistic optimism to himself.

"You have life, existence, and consciousness," Joshua continued. "These are precious gifts that almost everyone takes for granted, yet they could be considered the most vital of possessions. Is it not delightful just to be able to think, to see, and to smell? Isn't the sky beautiful? Aren't the dewdrops a dazzling display of wonder? Look at them," he ended in a kind, but forceful voice.

Beauty was something the Soldier had been trained to ignore. In fact, Hydra had taught him that there was no beauty at all. A human face was just a jumble of molecules; nothing more. A mountain range was a bunch of rocks. The sky was air. Dewdrops were simply drops of water. What could be special about them? But, at Joshua's request, the Soldier looked around him reluctantly.

He stared carefully at the scenery, wondering what exactly he was supposed to see. Then, like the correcting of a camera lens, the Soldier _saw_ what Joshua had spoken of. Beauty. The grass stretching out before him looked exactly the same as it had always looked, but now there was a new dimension. The dewdrops shone in the increasing light as the sun struggled to break the horizon. The water dotted the grass like a thousand tiny diamonds, and each reflected a little of the vibrant colors of autumn that still clung to the trees above. The Soldier felt a stirring in his heart that he did not understand, but he was sure that this beauty was not merely scattered atoms without purpose. If that were true, why would he have a standard of beauty anyway?

"Aren't you glad to live in a world that looks like this, and aren't you happy that you have the capacity to comprehend it?" Joshua asked, sweeping his hand out in a gesture to the forest surrounding them. The Soldier did not respond, but he did understand.

"And that's just a common grace that everyone in the world has. But you have even more than that. It is true that I don't know anything about you, but I can still say that with certainty. First of all, you can walk, right?"

The question confused the Soldier, but he nodded. "Can you eat without the help of someone else? Are you able to see? All these things are wonderful blessings that many, many people do not have. Trust me; you should be very grateful to be able to take care of yourself.

"Also, think about the country you live in. I bet you, like lots of Americans, don't realize what a blessing government is, despite its imperfections. Without authority, crime would run rampant. I don't mean that there would be more stealing; I mean no law and no restraint. Anarchy. In America, we have an especially good authority system, where criminals are punished and officials are not generally corrupt. Lots of other nations have executives so biased that they pervert justice instead of uphold it."

"If I may give an example, think about the country of Ukraine. Have you heard about the recent events going on there?" The Soldier shook his head. Joshua was clearly surprised, but he continued. "Suffice it to say that at this time a year ago, things were awful. The police and politicians could only be persuaded to act if they were bribed properly. These men and their kids could get away with _any_ crime. In January, there was a student protest, and the police came out and brutally beat the protestors in a public square. Here, you don't have to be afraid of that. And here, if something happens to you such as a burglary or a house fire, you can have help right beside you in three minutes.

"In addition to all these things, think about the very culture of the US. We were founded on the idea of absolute truth and Biblical principles, and even though we are slowly losing those, you can still see their effects today. A study was done in which someone pretended to be sick next to an average sidewalk in both an American city and then in Moscow. Guess what happened? The Americans helped the man immediately. In Moscow, the man was passed by many times before even one person stopped. And, if you allow me to say so, you've experienced that first hand this morning. Whether or not you'll accept any of my help and advice, I still cared enough to make sure you were alright. Aren't you glad someone cares about you?"

The Soldier was indeed uplifted by the idea that Joshua cared about him, but the comment actually made him think of someone else. The youthful face of Captain America filled his memory, and he recalled the incident on the Helicarrier when the Captain had been willing to die rather than to fight his friend. Though he tried not to let the thought articulate, it materialized in his head clear as crystal: almost no one in the world had a friend who displayed such unconditional love and loyalty as the Soldier did. And he had tried to kill Captain America. No, not Captain America. Steve.

Broken images were flying into the Soldier's head, but he tried to ignore them and focus on the what was happening here and now instead. What Joshua said did make sense, and while it did not erase the Soldier's pain, it did bring light into what had been the darkest moment of the Soldier's life.

Joshua seemed to see that the Soldier was no longer in a state of utter despair. The jogger's mouth formed into a small grin, and he stood up. The Soldier looked up at him with confused and questioning eyes, as if he were a child who was eager to learn something vitally important.

"There are many more common graces I could list, though most have Biblical origin, and so you may not agree with them. Still, I'd be more than happy to talk about them with you. Do you have somewhere to be?"

The Soldier slowly shook his head, looking down at the ground as if in shame. "Well, that's perfect," Joshua said, smiling. He extended a hand to the Soldier. "Several of my church's families are having a Thanksgiving meal in a couple of hours. It's just a get-together when we eat and talk. The church is only a few blocks away, and there you could get some new clothes and a bit of a cleanup. From there, I'd take you to the part of the park where we'll eat with the others. It's totally informal, and we'd be honored if you'd come."

The Soldier was astounded by multiple parts of Joshua's statement. First of all, he was amazed that Joshua would invite a complete stranger to anything. And not only was Joshua's offer an invitation, but it was a sacrifice. He would have to give up his own time and the church's resources. Second, the word 'honor' should have no correlation whatsoever with the Soldier. He lacked honor in every sense of the word. This must tie in to what Joshua had said about caring for other people.

"Why do you care?" the Soldier managed to ask in a gruff, broken voice.

"Ah, that's where a Biblical explanation is necessary," Joshua said. "Come with me, and I'll tell you about it in full."

The Soldier looked at the outstretched hand. It was a purely friendly gesture, one without thought of selfish gain or betrayal. Like Steve. Hydra's claws had left their wounds on the Soldier's soul, and until a few moments ago, the Soldier believed the injuries to be incurable. Now, he felt something in his heart he had never known: healing. He took the hand.

Careful to keep his left hand in his pocket to obscure its unique material, the Soldier stood up. Only he was no longer just Hydra's operative, the Winter Soldier. He was something more. Had Joshua's discussion generated this strange, unknown presence? No, it had existed before. Joshua had not created anything, but his words had awakened _something_. For a moment, the Soldier wondered what it could be, but then he knew.

"Do you mind giving me your name, or at least something to call you?" Joshua asked, walking slowly toward the sidewalk.

The answer came with both certainty and hope.

"Bucky. I am Bucky."

**Hope y'all enjoyed it! Anyone want a sequel? It's in progress, and whether you're a Christian who would like your ideas affirmed or an atheist who wonders why Christians care, I hope you read it. It should be up soon-ish. Please, please, please leave me a review!**


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